


The Anatomy of a Ghost

by MangoMartini



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Depression, Dom Moriarty, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Great Hiatus, Light Bondage, M/M, Spanking, Sub Moran, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 01:31:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4647258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangoMartini/pseuds/MangoMartini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re supposed to be dead,” Sebastian says, finding his voice. It’s sour from the beer but it only waivers slightly, and he’s proud of that. </p><p>“I tried to get back earlier,” Jim goes on to say, waving one hand languidly like he’d just been stuck in a long line after popping down to the store for more tea. “But leaving America at this time of year is always such a nightmare.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Anatomy of a Ghost

Sebastian pushes the key into the lock, twists it the wrong way, curses at it, and then get its right. He kicks the door shut behind him, wishing that the sound of the wood shaking on its hinges would make him feel any better. 

It’s been a goddamn bitch of a day. 

Four long strides and he’s in the kitchen, crouching over an open fridge and glaring at it as if he can, by sheer force of will, make more beers materialize on the empty, plastic shelves. It’s not like he can’t _afford_ to go get more, but it’s probably warmer in the fucking freezer than it is outside. 

Sebastian grabs the last, lone beer and pops the cap off on the counter. He’s halfway through it, downing it in thirsty gulps, when that little voice in the back of his mind reminds him _Jim won’t like that_. That stops him. Sebastian puts down the beer because he’s not sure what Jim won’t like--the boots on the carpet, using the granite counter top to open his beer, hell even the way he slammed the door. 

But none of that matters, because it’s _wouldn’t_ now--not won’t. It’s been wouldn’t for two and a half years now.

Sebastian sits at the kitchen table, polished wood with just two chairs, and sips his beer. Two and a half years of trying to be him, which was about as successful as Sebastian actually trying to force himself into one of Jim’s suits. The suits that still hang in the closet--black, white, and navy flags that all say surrender. 

Sebastian keeps them because, years ago, they still smelled like Jim. They smelled like cloves and licorice and _Jim_. Now they smell like mothballs and gun oil and London in the winter, but Sebastian can’t bare to think about what their-- _his_ \--closet would look like without them. 

He finishes the beer and puts it back on the table. _Coaster_ , his mind reminds him, and Sebastian shakes his head like he can shake out the thought. He had made some changes. The France network was too unstable, and while Jim had left some documents, he hadn’t left anything indicating how he was planning on turning a profit there. And he’d stopped using coasters. 

Hey, no one said he had to make big changes. 

No one ever said he would have to be in charge, either. He throws the beer bottle across the small kitchen into the bin and it hits it mark, crashing against the rest of the six pack, bodies of fallen comrades all laid to rest in a mass grave. There are takeout containers towards the bottom of the bin, he’s sure. Sebastian has vague memories of eating.

He used to be in charge of making sure Jim ate. Or rather, Jim had _told_ him to make sure that he ate something semi-regularly, and Sebastian did just that. He was always best when he was doing what Jim told him, like a gun or a pet or any of the other million of other nicknames Jim had for him. Sebastian had laughed them off when this had all started, as either insults or pet names but the truth was far simpler, far more important: submitting to Jim had just been so damn _easy_. 

He’s still doing it, in a way. Doing it the best he can from Jim’s notes and charts and the half-formed ideas he decided to tell Sebastian. He follows them because even on a good day, he honestly can’t understand how the world keeps turning with Jim Moriarty at the helm, directing it all, pulling the threads of the universe. 

“Are you going to sulk all night? Bo- _ring_.”

Sebastian doesn’t jump or scream; he’s too well trained. But it isn’t enough to stop the way Sebastian’s breathing hitches, the way the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, the way the corners of his eyes prickle. 

He tried to have this hallucination before. Not a week after the funeral, when the loss still felt like a bleeding wound and not just a phantom limb, Sebastian had broken his first rule and gotten his hands on something this kid swore up and down would make him see things. He had wanted Jim and just got the fucking war, and hadn’t tried it again since. 

“You’re too much in your own head,” Jim’s says, calm, like he has any right to be here and not in the box that Sebastian watched being lowered into the ground. “You walked right past me. I’ve been sitting on that couch for hours.”

Sebastian is in the middle of reinforcing the idea that he’s finally having the hallucination from two years ago, or maybe there was something in the beer, when Jim is there, standing in the doorway that connects the kitchen to the living room. 

Jim leans against the wooden frame, hands in his pockets, looking anything but dead. His suit is dark, fits well enough, and he’s wearing a tie Sebastian hasn’t seen before. His hair is slightly longer than Sebastian remembers, but there’s that same stubble and those same dark eyes and it’s _Jim_ , here and very much alive. 

“You’re supposed to be dead,” Sebastian says, finding his voice. It’s sour from the beer but it only waivers slightly, and he’s proud of that. 

“I tried to get back earlier,” Jim goes on to say, waving one hand languidly like he’d just been stuck in a long line after popping down to the store for more tea. “But leaving America at this time of year is always such a nightmare.”

“ _America_ ,” Sebastian repeats. “You’ve been in America.” He clenches his jaw when Jim just nods, like he can’t understand how Sebastian doesn’t comprehend something so simple. “And you couldn’t have found the time to call, text, to even send me a bloody postcard.” He’s livid now, trying to imagine what that postcard would even look like. Sebastian pictures a glossy postcard with the Statue of Liberty or one of those fucking bridges on it. _Moran, America is lovely this time of year. Having a fun time causing chaos across the pond. Jim. P.S Not dead_.

Sebastian is up in a heartbeat, charging over to Jim. But before he can figure out what he wants to do when he’s over there, Jim has smacked his across the face. A fleshy _thwack_ reverberates through the flat, and Sebastian can faintly taste blood in his mouth. He steps back, as far as the door frame will let him, and touches his face where Jim hit him. He sucks at the blood in his mouth, swallowing it down, wishing there was more of it. The pain barely registers. 

“Just because you thought I was dead,” Jim says slowly, words measured, hand still up as if he might strike Sebastian again, “doesn’t mean anything has changed.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Jim is here, and he hit him, and the idea that nothing has changed makes Sebastian so anxious and hopeful that the feeling of it hurts more than the blow to his face. “Jim,” Sebastian begs. 

“Get down on your knees,” Jim growls out. 

Sebastian drops to his knees with a dull thud, hands clasped behind his back. The tile is unrelenting, but the familiar pain grounds him. He looks forward, eyes at Jim’s knees, hidden behind black wool. 

“You don’t get to do this.” Sebastian juts his chin up. He knows the position he’s in, what it’s supposed to mean, but he can’t stop the words. “You don’t get to fake your own fucking death and then just show up when it’s convenient for you.” He doesn’t feel tears, but there’s a lump in his throat that threatens to choke his words. “I buried you.”

Jim narrows his gaze on Sebastian, dark and unreadable. “Did I say you could talk?” he asks finally, and then repeats the question when Sebastian doesn’t answer. 

Sebastian licks his lips. He doesn’t have to answer. Jim isn’t strong. He’s fast, but he’s not strong the way that Sebastian is. Sebastian could break his arm, his neck, and barely break a sweat.

But the longer he’s on his knees, the more his body remembers how much it needs this, this total surrender. He had to be in charge for so long, with nothing to take the edge off. And Jim is right, because he is always right--Sebastian is too much in his head. It could get him killed. 

He runs his tongue around his mouth, seeking out the last flecks of blood and beer. “No, sir,” he says, and even just saying it feels _good_. Sebastian looks back down at Jim’s knees, and can hear the slippery snick of Jim undoing his tie. 

Jim leans down over him, forcing Sebastian’s mouth open with his thumb before forcing part of the tie into it. He moves to stand behind Sebastian, knotting the tie at the base of Sebastian’s skull so that it can be both a gag and a lead. Jim tugs at it and Sebastian moans softly, can’t help himself. 

His moan is rewarded with a, “good boy,” and damn if he isn’t half hard from those words alone. Sebastian’s body relaxes, muscles unfurling like tea leaves in hot water, finally able to do what they were made to do. With his free hand Jim cards his fingers through Sebastian’s short hair with his free hand, and Sebastian leans back into the touch, greedy and desperate. 

“But you haven’t been an entirely good boy, have you?” Jim asks, with that flippant tone of voice he uses when he asks a question he already knows the answer to. “France was a smart move,” Jim concedes, tugging at Sebastian’s hair. “And you’ve _maintained_ most of what I’ve built.” It doesn’t sound like a compliment, but Jim’s fingers in his hair say that it is, and Sebastian closes his eyes so he can soak it all in. 

It’s when those deft fingers work their way down to the nape of his neck that Sebastian braces himself. “But look at what else you’ve done,” Jim drawls, dragging his sharp nails down the back of Sebastian’s neck. Then the hand is gone. “Wearing your shoes in the house, denting the countertops, an appalling lack of anything edible, more than a week’s worth of dirty laundry, and the bathroom. I trained you better than that.”

Sebastian whimpers from behind the makeshift gag, which only makes Jim tug at it again. Jim went through the flat. _Their_ flat. He wants to argue that he thought Jim was dead, but can’t decide if it’s an excuse or a reason but it doesn’t matter. Jim has him gagged and so he doesn’t even have to think about what to say, or if it would be right or wrong. He just nods. 

Jim makes a pleased noise. “So you haven’t forgotten everything, have you?” 

Sebastian shakes his head as much as the tie will let him, and tries to focus on the steadiness of his breathing, the weight of the silk tied around his mouth, the fact that it’s _Jim_ doing all of this. He wants to ask, to turn around and claw his way into the secrets Jim keeps, into Jim himself. But Jim’s right: he’s better trained than that, and dear lord does he need this. 

Jim runs the end of the makeshift lead through his fingers, and Sebastian wonders if he’s getting used to the feel of it, too. Sebastian never knew if Jim got something from these games of theirs, beyond a clean flat and an obedient soldier. The idea asking felt like it would shatter what they had, like this fantasy they created for themselves couldn’t hold up against the weight of reality. 

“I should have gotten back earlier,” Jim repeats, softer now, as if he’s just speaking to himself. Sebastian would give anything to see what look Jim has on his face. Jim steps to the side, and Sebastian opens his eyes so that he can see Jim out of his peripheral vision. The tie shifts around Sebastian’s head and the fabric just barely catches on his stubble as it moves down from around Sebastian’s mouth to around his neck. 

Jim doesn’t say anything for almost a minute, and Sebastian knows he’s being looked at, examined, but for what he doesn’t know. 

“Follow me into the bedroom,” Jim orders, and Sebastian’s body sings. It’s one of Jim’s favorite orders, or at least Sebastian assumed it is from how frequently Jim gave it. Kneeling, crawling, anything to make up for their height difference. Anything to help remind Sebastian who he belonged to, and who he still belongs to. 

Jim steps toward their bedroom and tugs on the tie again. Sebastian follows behind on his hands and knees. It’s awkward at first, but then his body relaxes into it. Jim keeps giving orders in the same even, distant voice: into the bedroom, clothes off, on his hands and knees. 

Sebastian looks over his shoulder and sees Jim looking down under the bed. He knows he shouldn’t, that it’s against the rules, but now that they’re this far part of Sebastian is worried that if he takes his eyes off Jim for a moment, he’ll disappear.

Jim comes back up with a plastic container in his hands. “I was wondering if I would still find this here,” he says, and again Sebastian feels as if he’s not the recipient of those words. He watches Jim drag a finger across the top of the box, examine the dust on the tip of his finger, and then make a disgusted face. “You know better than this. Face forward.”

Sebastian does as he’s told. From what he can hear, Jim went through the box and is now rummaging through their closet, and _oh_ \--

He hears Jim testing the riding crop against the palm of his hand. It was a gift to Jim, after he spent a week talking non-stop about that fucking detective and his fucking riding crop, and Sebastian hadn’t been able to sit properly for days after that. 

“You haven’t moved anything.” Jim hits his own palm again with the crop. “How many do you think you deserve?”

“As many as you think, sir.”

“Very good,” Jim says, and Sebastian smiles down onto the bed. That’s one answer he hasn’t forgotten. Jim’s touching his arse with firm rubs, fingers prodding, checking. And then the touch is gone. “Ten,” he says, “and you’re going to count.”

“Only ten, sir?” Sebastian asks. He knows--Jim knows--that he can take more than that. He’s had Jim take him apart and stitch him back together so many times that Sebastian is sure Jim could kill him, rip his heart out and then stitch it back in and bring him back to life without breaking a sweat if he wanted to. He could take more than ten. 

The response from Jim is a swift smack on his arse with the crop, hard and unexpected. Sebastian yelps, more from the surprise than the pain. “You will take what I give you, Sebastian,” Jim says, drawing the end of the crop over the place he just hit. “Now count.”

Sebastian waits for a moment, seeing if Jim will give him another one, before he begrudgingly counts off, “one.”

The next three are wonderful, the pain more pleasure than anything else, even though Jim isn’t holding back. By the time he counts off six it’s almost too much, and at eight Sebastian can feel his cock leaking onto the bed, but with his face in the pillow and his arms behind his back he can’t do anything about it. 

Another hit. 

“Nine.”

“Who do you belong to?” Jim asks suddenly, and the question catches Sebastian off guard. 

He’s just about to say the number when he switches to, “you, only you,” and even with only ten it feels like too much. 

Silence permeates the room. There’s no sound of riding crop against skin, or of Sebastian counting. In the silence, he can hear Jim’s breathing, but before Sebastian can dare to look behind himself Jim is giving another order. 

“On your back.”

Sebastian complies, wincing slightly as he feels the bedding move against the now-raw flesh of his arse. His arms go up above his head, reaching toward the corners of the bed, instinctually. 

Jim hums again. “Good boy,” he praises, running a hand through Sebastian’s hair again. Sebastian had always wondered if Jim did it because he liked to, or to remind Sebastian that Jim could reach even that part of him now, when normally Jim couldn’t. Now, he didn’t care, as long as Jim kept touching him. 

Sebastian watches, and when Jim goes to check the corners of the bed looking for the restraints, he smiles for the first time all evening. 

“You kept them?” he asks, locking Sebastian’s wrist into the contraption built from stolen handcuffs and a few other pieces of hardware. Jim’s hand lingers over the metal for a moment, as if remembering when he built them, or maybe he’s remembering the conversation that led to the need for them. Sebastian doesn’t ask. 

Sebastian tugs at the restraints, just slightly. He doesn’t need to test them, knows they will hold. But he needs to feel the bite of metal against his wrists, remind himself that he can’t get out of these. Not until Jim wants him out of them. He wants his mind to remember as much as his body already has. 

Jim gives Sebastian a look like he wants an answer as he moves to the other side of the bed to do up Sebastian’s other wrist. 

“You made them, sir,” is all Sebastian says in response. He doesn’t want to think anymore, doesn’t want to answer any more questions. That’s why they do this, why they started doing this all those years ago: so Sebastian didn’t have to think at all. He trusted Jim to do this before he even knew he wanted it, and Jim had taken to it so naturally, as if it was as easy as tying a tie or organizing a heist. 

Jim hums in response, and Sebastian hopes to god that was the right answer because he’s now naked and hard and so ready for Jim to touch him. Jim doesn’t, though, he just keeps _looking_ at Sebastian and it’s driving him mad. 

He knows he won’t drop this evening, that as much as he wants to the fact that Jim is here and not dead is going to keep him from letting go as much as he needs to for that. But Jim is here, and the way the room looks with him in it makes up for everything else, because Sebastian only belongs here with Jim. 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Jim says, like he regrets it. “That’s all we have time for.”

Sebastian bites his lip and just watches as Jim takes off his cufflinks and places them on the dresser. The shirt goes next, one button after the other, and Sebastian leans up off the bed as far as he can so that he can keep watching. 

Jim untucks his shirt from his trousers and then drapes the shirt over the dress-- _so it will wrinkle less_ Sebastian thinks in Jim’s voice. Those nights when Sebastian was allowed to undress Jim, he was always told to watch out for wrinkling the shirts, snagging the ties, being too rough on the buttons. And if he was, Jim punished him. Rarely did Jim allow Sebastian to just watch, and the thought makes Sebastian tug on his restrains again.

“Move again and I will leave,” Jim snaps, voice hard. 

Sebastian stills instantly, and Jim goes back to slowly undoing the laces of his shoes, then pulling off his socks, and finally undoing his trousers. 

_You can’t leave_ , Sebastian thinks, but knows better than to say it. Jim always follows through on his threats. 

Jim steps out of the trousers, folds them in half over his arm, and then places them over the shirt. He leans down to grab something--lube--and tosses it onto the bed next to Sebastian’s side. Only then does he approach the bed. Jim steps on the bed, and Sebastian knows he’s stepping on the edge of the bed frame in order to do that so easily--Jim’s not that short, but it’s a big bed. Jim straddles one of Sebastian’s thighs.

He doesn’t do anything, so Sebastian opens his mouth to--

Jim drags his nails down Sebastian's chest, leaving ten bright red lines that stop just before his hips and making Sebastian wince. “I ordered you not to move,” Jim says, hands on Sebastian’s hips, and Sebastian closes his mouth. There’s another beat of silence, as Sebastian watches Jim’s eyes move down the red lines to Sebastian’s cock. “This as good as you’ve been getting since I’ve been gone? Answer me.”

And Sebastian almost wants to laugh at that. “No, sir. There’s been no one but you.” As if anyone else could compare to this, to Jim. Not that there haven’t been numerous offers, but Sebastian keeps that to himself. Screw the coasters, he’s been so good _here_ , only finding relief in his own hand and only to the memories of Jim. 

“Well,” Jim says, “good.” 

He squeezes Sebastian’s hips and Sebastian cants them up, can’t help it, and the movement makes Jim swoop down to bite Sebastian on his shoulder hard enough to make Sebastian wonder if Jim’s drawn blood. It wouldn’t be the first time, and even though it’s meant to be a punishment Sebastian groans. 

“You’re wasting time,” Jim scolds into Sebastian’s ear. But even as he says it, he’s pressing kisses down Sebastian’s neck nipping at the sensitive skin. “Next time,” Jim says, as he pulls away from Sebastian’s neck, “we can do this properly.”

Sebastian doesn’t have time to dwell on those words because as soon as Jim is sitting up he’s taking off his pants, shimmying out of them with a gracelessness that Sebastian finds unreasonably hot. Finally Jim is naked too, naked and hard, and what Sebastian wouldn’t give to have that cock in his mouth again. But when Jim reaches for the lube, Sebastian knows that’s not where the night is going. 

He watches Jim drizzle lube over his hand, his fingers, barely wanting to blink because he doesn’t want to miss a second of Jim fingering himself, stretching himself open so that he can take Sebastian’s cock. What he’s not expecting is for Jim to reach out with that hand and touch _him_. Sebastian’s back arches off the bed, but Jim just snickers.

“Need to keep you on your toes. You’ve gotten so complacent lately,” Jim says, and Sebastian moans in response. The pressure on his cock is good, but not good enough, not like Jim will feel stretched around him. 

“You took so long getting home,” Jim says so casually, despite the dark look in his eyes and his hard cock. He takes his hand away from Sebastian despite Sebastian’s whines of protest, and reaches behind himself. All Sebastian can do it watchs Jim’s face, the way his lips part slightly and the way his eyes squeeze shut, as Jim pulls out a black butt plug and tosses it off to the side of the bed. Jim opens his eyes and looks at Sebastian as he says, “so I got started early. Didn’t want to waste any more time.”

And that was the only warning that Sebastian got before Jim shifted, positioned himself above Sebastian’s cock and sank down with a euphoric ease. 

“Yes,” Jim hisses, once he has all of Sebastian’s cock inside him. All Sebastian can do is moan, tug on the restraints, too gone for actual words. “Missed this,” Jim says, voice tight, as he lifts himself up off Sebastian’s cock just enough to thrust back down again. Jim throws his head back, mouth open for a silent moan. 

“More,” Sebastian pleas. He knows he’ll finish too fast if he watches but he doesn’t want to look away from this. 

Jim smiles and for the first time that evening everything feels _right_. Jim here, Jim in control, Jim happy--Sebastian tries to thrust his hips up but the angle is off and he barely can, but it get’s Jim’s attention all the same. 

“Come on, ‘Bastian,” Jim says, and god he must be enjoying himself if he’s on to pet names, Sebastian thinks. “Tell me how much you missed this.”

And Sebastian almost doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to give Jim the satisfaction of pressing his thumb into that open wound while he fucks him, but then Jim drops down so that his hands are on Sebastian’s shoulders, nails digging into the skin, and fucking him in earnest and Sebastian throws his head back. 

“Fucking missed this,” Sebastian groans out, not even sure where to start, not when his words are punctuated with the slick slapping of Jim’s skin on his, of Jim fucking him as if he never left. “Missed you. I needed you--need you,” Sebastian corrects, because Jim’s not dead, he’s right here.

Jim’s thrusts are more erratic, and Sebastian can feel his own orgasm closing in on him, a wave ready to crash on the shore that he wants to ride out longer than he knows he can. He lasts only a few more thrusts before he’s coming harder than he has in years with Jim’s name on his lips. Jim follows shortly after, stroking his cock and coming all over Sebastian’s bare chest.

It takes all of two seconds for Jim to catch his breath and then he’s pulling off of Sebastian. Jim moves like he wants to stand up, but stumbles and instead leans against the bed. Sebastian wonders if Jim really forgot how this all was, if he thought he could stand like that. But the afterglow, the dull and fading pain in the spots where Jim hurt him mixed with the intense pleasure, felt too good to ruin with anything else. 

Jim stands after a moment longer, one hand braced on the edge of the bed. He’s gorgeous like this, Sebastian thinks: pale face flushed, dark hair falling out of where he gels it back, perfect skin such a contrast to the way he always marks up Sebastian. Seeing Jim like this always made Sebastian think of a four letter word that, even with everything they did, had never been part of their repertoire. 

“Undo me and come back to bed?” Sebastian asks, and Jim nods. He slowly moves to each side of the bed, unlocking the restraints, and then disappears into the bathroom attached to their bedroom. Sebastian sits up, rubs his wrists as he hears the sound of water running. Jim comes back with a dark blue towel wrapped around his hips and with a damp one in his hand that he hands to Sebastian. 

“I doubt you’ve kept up on laundry enough to have a clean spare,” Jim says, nodding down toward the soiled bedding. 

They didn’t even make it to the sheets. Sebastian shrugs as he wipes the drying come off his chest. “There should be a clean duvet in the--well, you know,” he says, because telling Jim where things are here feels wrong. And when Jim leaves to retrieve it, Sebastian gets up to drop the towel in the laundry hamper, knowing Jim would complain if he left it on the floor next to the bed. 

Jim comes back with the duvet and they remake the bed in silence. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Sebastian says, once the lights are off and he has one arm draped around Jim.”

Jim scoffs. “That is the usual result of death.”

Sebastian just nuzzles into the back of Jim’s neck. “But you never were usual, were you?”

“Get some sleep,” is all Jim says in return. It’s not _I love you_ , but with Jim in his arms Sebastian can’t find it in himself to care. 

He wakes up the next morning to an empty bed, but that’s not unusual. Jim has never slept for very long, or for very often. It’s only when he can’t find Jim in the bathroom, the living room, or the kitchen that Sebastian begins to panic. 

Jim’s clothes aren’t there. Neither is the lube, or the plug, or even the crop. All the toys have been put away as if they had never been used. But there’s the dirty laundry in the hamper, and the different duvet on the bed, and Sebastian _knows_ that he didn’t hallucinate that. 

It’s only then that he sees the envelope on the dresser, propped up against the wall. It’s plain white, as is the stationary inside. The note on the stationary is short, but Sebastian would know that handwriting anywhere. 

_Still dead_ , is all it says, followed by a date about a year and a half into the future. 

Sebastian folds the letter up and places it back in the envelope. Later, he decides, he will go leave flowers on Moriarty’s grave. 

He can wait.


End file.
